


Pictures in Pasta

by SpraceJunkie



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M, idk man this was weird and now I want pasta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpraceJunkie/pseuds/SpraceJunkie





	

“Two parts flour, three parts eggs. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Arabella Higgins’s accented voice was quiet in the kitchen, just loud enough for her son to hear her over the bustle. “Slow down, tesoro, you don’t want to spill.”  
Antonio Higgins, seven years old, standing on a stool and measuring flour into a bowl.  
“Salt first, amore, and mix.” His hands dipped into the bowl, mixing the salt and flour together. “Now make a hole in the middle. Un vulcano, sì?” Like often happened, his mother slipped through the line that was fluid between languages for their family. “Now, crack the eggs. Gentle, Antonio, dolcemente, and drip the oil. Just a little bit, perfetto. Use the fork, mix the eggs and oil first, now add in the flour.” Antonio Higgins, seven years old, mixing flour and oil and eggs and salt until it was a dough, small hands and arms lifting the ball up and out and kneading until he wasn't strong enough. He watched his mother finish the dough and wrap it in a towel. He sat on the counter and watched as people came in and out with plates, empty coming in and full coming out, the restaurant in full swing.  
Antonio Higgins, seven years old, hands on top of his mother’s as he rolled the dough, seeing how she turned it and made it thin. He folded the flat pieces into thick rolls, cut thick, uneven strips, and loosened it, and watched as his mother dropped some of it into the smallest pot bubbling on the stove.  
“The best food, Antonio, is always the food you make yourself. Taste.” Antonio Higgins, seven years old, had his first forkful of pasta he’d made by hand.

“Two parts flour, three parts eggs. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Alessa Higgins watched her younger brother make pasta in the morning before school. “Don’t beat the eggs so fast, principessa, you’ll spill the flour.”  
Antonio Higgins, ten years old, learning to make pasta that was restaurant ready.  
“Thinner cuts, thinner. Neat edges, make sure it looks professional, this is gonna be served. La pasta grazioso, gente felice, ricorda.”  
“Sì, sì, I remember.” Antonio Higgins, ten years old, keeping his hand as steady as possible and cutting his pasta as thinly and smoothly as he could, carefully pulling his knife through the folds, trying to be as good as his sisters and parents.  
He loosened the folds, displaying his work.  
“Not quite ready for the restaurant, fratello, but not bad.” Antonio Higgins, ten years old, smiling proudly as he sister helped him lay out his pasta to be frozen for later.

“Two parts flour, three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Antonio Higgins, sixteen years old, was standing in the restaurant kitchen at five in the morning, making the pasta for the day. “Un vulcano, and mix, smooth dough, flour, fold and cut.” His mother came into the kitchen and watched.  
“Let it rest, tesoro, don’t try to roll too soon.”  
“Sì, Mama, I know.” Antonio Higgins, sixteen years old, covering the dough with a towel and sitting on a stool by the counter. His math homework was out next to the row of covered dough balls and he worked on it while waiting the last five minutes before he could start to roll and cut the first section of pasta.  
When the timer he’d set earlier rang, he was already spreading flour, and he started rolling. The rhythm of the rolling pin on the dough was relaxing and familiar.  
“Your sisters never liked getting up this early.”  
“I don’t like getting up early either. I like to make pasta, though.”  
“Mio figlio preferito.” His mom ruffled his hair.  
“I’m your only son, Mama.”  
“Exactly.” Antonio Higgins, sixteen years old, cutting pasta and spreading it out to dry and freeze, flour on his face and in his hair as his mother joins him and rolls and cuts more pasta.  
“I’ll finish this. You get get ready for school, tesoro.” Antonio Higgins, sixteen years old, kissed his mother on the cheek and ran upstairs.

“Two parts flour, three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Antonio Higgins, nineteen years old, beating the eggs aggressively in the dorm kitchens. “Asshole.” He punched the dough ball. He didn't wait for the dough to rest, instead choosing to aggressively roll it. He knew it wouldn't roll, but that was okay. The action of pushing forward and down and back and down was relaxing.  
“Race? What are you doing?”  
“I’m making pasta. Fuck off, Jack.” Antonio Higgins, nineteen years old, wanting to be left alone.  
“What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing.” His rolling got more aggressive, and he was sure he was glaring at the dough like it had murdered his family.  
“It’s him again, isn't it? Just tell him to fuck off, Race, he isn't worth the time.” Antonio Higgins, nineteen years old, rolling the pasta as hard as he could and thinking about the boy in question.  
“He’s not a bad person, Jack.”  
“Spot’s an asshole, Race. He’s not admitting you're dating, he’s being a jerk, just leave him.” Race’s glare deepened and his rolling got even more aggressive.  
“I can take care. Of. Myself. Jack.” Jack watched the dough stretch out and snap back.  
“It’s not rolling out.”  
“I’m aware, stronzo. I know what I’m doing. Just go away. Please.” The dough finally lay flat and smooth on the counter, and Race started folding. The familiar motion, usually calming, didn't do much at all.  
“Just-”  
“Jack. I’m fine, and I want to be alone. Go away.” Antonio Higgins, nineteen years old, dealing with emotions he didn't understand by venting his frustrations into pasta.

“Two parts flour, three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Spot looked completely confused by Race’s recipe, even more so by the accent that came into his words as he spoke.  
“Parts aren't a measurement, is it?” Antonio Higgins, twenty years old, once again in the dorm kitchens, this time happy and laughing.  
“Two cups of flour and three eggs, if you want to be precise. I don’t need to be.”  
“Oh.”  
“Mix the flour and salt. Gently, Spot, you’ll spill. Make un vulcan, a volcano, sorry, and put the eggs and oil in. Mix them together, good. See, it’s not so bad.” He watched Spot’s hands hesitantly knead the dough, unsure of how he was supposed to do it. “That's fine, Spot.” Antonio Higgins, twenty years old, teaching his boyfriend how to make pasta just like his mom had taught him.  
“What now?”  
“Take it out of the bowl and put the dough on the counter. Dump what’s left of the flour on top and keep mixing.” Spot kept pushing the flour through the dough, while Race watched.  
“It’s getting hard.”  
“Good. That means it’s almost ready. First, we have to let it sit for a little while.” Race wrapped the towel he’d brought around the dough. “That way, it’ll settle and we can roll it.” Antonio Higgins, twenty years old, giving his boyfriend a kiss in the kitchen, feeling as at home as he ever had at college, waiting for the thirty minutes to be up so he could show Spot the next step.  
The timer dinged, and Race put his hands under Spot’s on the rolling pin, back and forth, pushing the dough out to the flat shape he wanted.  
“Fold it carefully.”  
“Like this?” Spot was still hesitant, trying to avoid messing up.  
“Mmhmm. And if you make a mess we just reroll. Don't worry, it’s pasta, not rocket science.”  
“I think I’d prefer doing science. I’m not good with food.” Race laughed again.  
“You're doing fine, Spot. That’s perfect. Now just cut it into small strips, and you have simple pasta.” Spot looked skeptical, prompting Race to pull out the first noodle.  
“Look. It’s a noodle. You made the noodle. It’s a good noodle. You did fine.” Spot laughed a little bit at that. “See? Cooking is fun!”  
“Not really, but sure.” Antonio Higgins, twenty years old, poking his boyfriend’s side, trying to prompt another laugh from the boy who had trouble smiling sometimes.

“Two parts flour-”  
“Three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dash of oil.”  
“A dip. A dip of oil, Sean, a dip and a dash are different things.”  
“Neither of them are real measurements.”  
“A dip is a tablespoon, and a dash is more like...three.”  
“Your family doesn't actually measure anything, do they?”  
“Only the first few times we make it.” Antonio Higgins, almost twenty-three years old, making the first batch of pasta in his new apartment, comfortably chatting with his boyfriend.  
“How?”  
“Cooking isn't precise, baking is. I don’t need to measure exactly when I make things like this, because I know about what it should look like, and I can adjust if I need to. But with something like...cannoli, I have to measure perfectly, because baking is exact.”  
“I hate cooking.”  
“I know.” Spot watched Race finish kneading and wrap the dough. “You’re also horrible at cooking, so that’s okay.”  
“I’m...yeah, you're right.” Antonio Higgins, almost twenty-three years old, kissing his boyfriend through a smile, happy and content.  
“I know I am.”  
“Jerk. You’re supposed to reassure me.”  
“Sean, I’m the one who said it in the first place. You’re a horrible cook. Need I remind you of the time, no, multiple times, you started actual fires in the kitchens at school? Officially, I was kicked out of those kitchens. Also, you tried to microwave, microwave!, ramen noodles and you burned them. You, Sean, are the worst cook I’ve ever met.” Antonio Higgins, almost twenty-three years old, watching his boyfriend smile and laugh without a care, knowing that he felt safe when he didn't used to.  
“I can't really argue that.”  
“No, no you can't.” Spot was the one who kissed Race this time, still smiling.  
“Cut the pasta now. I’m hungry.”  
“Pushy pushy. It’s not done yet.”  
“It’s been-”  
“Five minutes. You’re gonna have to wait, or it won’t roll and it'll be dinky pasta.”  
“Pasta is dinky.”  
“You're dinky.”  
“You’re an assface.”  
“But you like my ass and my face, so that wasn't really an insult, was it?” Antonio Higgins, almost twenty-three years old, trying to keep a straight face as his boyfriend rolled his eyes and grumbled about wanting food.

“Two parts flour, three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.”  
“Whisk, knead, let it rest.” Spot responded to Race’s recitation absentmindedly, sitting at the kitchen table doing work.  
“Make a cook out of you yet.”  
“Yeah right.” Antonio Higgins, twenty-nine years old, settled into a very domestic and peaceful routine.  
“What are you working on?” When the dough was covered, Race sat down next to his boyfriend.  
“Paperwork.” Spot’s pen moved, filling in blanks and signing things.  
“For what?”  
“The case I’m helping on. Payment and stuff like that, mostly.”  
“They’re still making you do paperwork?”  
“For now. I’m not high enough up yet to pass it to someone else. And even if I get to that point, I’d rather do it myself. It’s-”  
“Relaxing. Just like math, reading War and Peace, and redesigning the New York subway system.”  
“Those things are relaxing.” Spot didn't seem to understand how Race didn't understand. “Math is logical, reading is calming, and I only did the last one once. I was stressed.”  
“You’re always stressed.”  
“Yeah, well, “final exam of law school” stressed is a lot different from my everyday stress.” Antonio Higgins, twenty-nine years old, leaning against his boyfriend waiting for his timer to ding, relaxing against the person he loved.  
“It went off, Tonio.”  
“What? No it didn't.”  
“It did. I think you fell asleep.”  
“Oh.” Race stood up and shook his head. “Oops.” He pulled the towel off the dough.  
“You made my arm fall asleep.”  
“You could have pushed me off.”  
“That would have been rude.” Spot smiled at him gently. “It was fine. It wasn't my writing arm, anyway.”  
“Okay.” Spot looked back down at his papers while Race rolled, folded and cut. “Dinner will be ready in a couple minutes.”  
“Kay.” Spot started shuffling his papers around, piling them in some sort of order that he understood and moving them to the living room.  
“Get drinks, carino?”  
“Sure.” Antonio Higgins, twenty-nine years old, eating dinner in his own apartment, talking and laughing over stupid jokes, living a good life.

“Two parts flour, three parts egg. A pinch of salt, a dip of oil.” Race whispered the words quietly, trying to calm his nerves. “Whisk, knead, let rest. Fold, cut, cook or freeze.”  
“Are you reciting your pasta recipe while we’re literally standing at the altar, getting married?”  
“I’m nervous.” Antonio Higgins, thirty-six years old, looking at his almost-husband, smiling slightly and well aware he was being ridiculous.  
“That what? I’ll walk away?”  
“I don't know. Just...in general.” Their quiet, private conversation was cut short when the official started talking. And there was Antonio Higgins, thirty-six years old, promising the rest of his life to the boy he’d fallen in love with and the man he’d become, meaning every single word he repeated.  
And time moved fast, through kissing and leaving and then they were at a party, dancing, and Race was happier than he could ever remember being.  
Antonio Higgins, thirty-six years old, dancing with his husband, glowing and walking on air. Reveling in the knowledge that his life was good, and he was married to the man he loved.


End file.
